Tag: andreth
Andreth & Aegnor by Ekukanova
#really when i think of aegnor’s issues with andreth’s fate i always wonder about the impact of the kinslaying on him idk#might be not at all what jirt intended but like… you know#it’s all i can think about when i think of them hahaha sob (via @crocordile)
Juliana, …um, so to say this politely? NO. Did not need that, my heart did not need that connection emphasized.
WIP Start: Meng Jiang-nu of Dorthonion
Baragund once thought his great-aunt, Andreth, the strongest woman he would ever meet, and he still wished to believe so. The hero worship of a child birthed this admiration, but the maturity of a man who knew wisdom and conviction were the source of true strength had solidified this belief that none could surpass or daunt his great-aunt. Yet the flames that died in the wake of the Battle of Sudden Flame were not just those purely physical, for to look into his great-aunt Andreth’s eyes was to see a flame extinguished. There was a frailness to his great-aunt that not even her immense age had afflicted upon her. Before the Battle of Sudden Flame, Great-Aunt Andreth had been old, but never seemingly conquered by her age. As a child, foolishly, Baragund thought death would be ever too afraid to come for her. Now Andreth stood, still disdaining to lean on the cane that Baragund’s father had gifted her last Midsummer, and argued with Uncle Barahir and Aunt Emeldir over the proper course of action now that most of Dorthonion had been devoured by flames. Her voice was as loud and clear as it had been when Baragund had been a boy, but there was a new brittleness to its timbre and a weariness to the set of her shoulders. A tree, hollowed out by disease and rot, still upright until a high wind would come to topple it, that was Great-Aunt Andreth. Uncle Barahir wished to stay and fight, to try to rebuild. Great-Aunt Andreth, a bony arm splayed out to point to the ash-fields that remained of their homes and the oily black clouds that still billowed from the castle to the west, called that hope foolishness. As Wise-woman and eldest kin, Great-Aunt Andreth had dispensed advice for the chieftains of Bëor, starting with her father, then brother, and lastly her nephew. In some ways, his people said, it was Andreth who ruled the People of Bëor, and they had nodded at the righteousness of that, for she was wise and firm-willed. Uncle Barahir looked pained to be publicly disagreeing with her. When the Great Fever swept through Dorthonion, killing many including Chief Boromir and Baragund’s mother, Great-Aunt Andreth had been the one to take in Baragund and his brother while their father recovered from the illness and buried their mother. She had been the one to lead her brother, Bregor, through that terrible summer of his first days as chief, to give him strength and hope. She promised the plague would pass, lives be rebuilt, and that Bregor would carry his people successfully through the harvest and winter. Now, her words spoke of defeat. In the ashes of the Dagor Bragollach, there was no hope of surviving the coming winter. And that Great-aunt Andreth dared to voice this awful fact felt like a cruel betrayal. The only part more shocking was that Uncle Barahir was obdurately disagreeing with her.
Exhausted with the repetitions of words, of the same arguments on if there was time to rebuild, if there was enough seed stock and livestock to have anything to support themselves in the spring and how soon Morgoth’s forces might return and make any rebuilding futile, Baragund left in search of his cousin. He found Beren with Urthel, and the two young men were carefully melting glue to attach feathers to fresh arrows. A stack of whittled arrow shafts lay at Beren’s feet, and Baragund picked one up and inspected it. “Where were you able to find them?” he asked, referring to the wood.
“The fires didn’t get up into the pines,” Beren mumbled, “not all of ‘em. We hid there, during the worst of it, when Ma had us evacuate.”
“You did well,” Baragund praised, repeating his own litany of words. For the last few days, ever since his Uncle reunited them with their families and the rest of Dorthonion’s remaining civilians, Baragund had been trying to reassure his cousin that the young man had performed his duties admirably. Beren had helped to protect his people, had done his best to keep them safe. But his cousin was as transparent as the lake on a clear day, and Beren blamed himself for every loss of life and house. “My daughter would not be alive without you,” Baragund stressed.
His cousin looked up from his project. “Great-Aunt Andreth says we should leave.”
“Yes,” Baragund says, “and your father hasn’t convinced her otherwise. I think your mom is half-convinced.”
“What do you think?” Beren asked.
Baragund had no answer for his cousin; he felt only emptiness when he thought of the question and the weighty consequences. The only solid thought that he did have was a chilling relief that he was not chieftain, that his uncle was one to carry the burden of leadership. What was most frightening for Baragund was the dawning realisation that if the day came that it would be his turn to lead his people, as his father, Bregolas, and grandfather, Bregor, had done, that he would not have the wisdom and strength of Great-aunt Andreth to support him.
“Eilinel wants to stay,” Urthel said, speaking of his sister.
“And Gorlim,” Beren added, speaking of his best friend. This made the large and grim-faced Urthel grunt with displeasure, for he had not yet decided if he approved of the young man that was courting Eilinel.
Another sobering thought for Baragund, for his daughter was no longer a young child, and he knew it would only be a few scant years until some callow boy came wishing to court Morwen.
“I think it’s melted now,” Beren said, handing the cup to Urthel. “Call me when they decide,” Baragund’s cousin said as he inspected trimmed pieces of feather. “I’ll try to make at least a good sheaf of arrows for you and Belegund. I can do that. Ma pulled me off fence-building, and Urthel already finished with firewood.”
“We don’t have enough yet,” Beren’s friend grumbled and held out a trimmed arrow shaft for Beren to start gluing on the fletching.
Seeing that they would not be distracted from their task, Baragund turned on his heels and trudged back into the hall to listen to his chieftain and Wise-woman quarrel at each other.
Andreth steps outside the door of her nephew’s house, the grand building that had once been home of her brother and her father and their father before them, so lovingly crafted and worn smooth by time and care. Her fingers wish to linger on the door-latch for a moment, but she does not hesitate to walk further into the light. She does not hear the door close behind her, or any sounds from inside the house. It is dawn, and the reddish orange of the sky looks so warm and comforting. She does not understand how it can, because the fiery glow engulfs the entire skyline and casts its hue over everything she sees, and she should be frightened, should be thinking of the flames that destroyed her world only a few days ago, but she doesn’t. She has forgotten the northern fires.
Andreth walks out from the shadow of the eaves, hugging her green cloak around her shoulders, staring out at the field stretched out before the house. From this angle she cannot see the other houses of the village nor the smithy, mill, or any of the barns, not even the fence-lines. Only a field of green grain, waist-high with summer promise, and a figure standing in the field with his back to her. The dawn silhouettes him, and Andreth knows the lines of his shoulders. He is leaning over to run a hand over the barley, and as a breeze lifts at her unbound hair, Andreth begins to smile in recognition and joy. He is not wearing armor, only a soft woven tunic of the very sort of plaid woolen cloth that has come from her looms, and there is no sword or quiver belted at his waist. He is free of tension, at peace, and that alone would make Andreth weep. Sunlight turns the curls of his hair into pure gold. It is still silent. Andreth walks out into the field, the dew soaking through the thin leather of her shoes and collecting on the hem of her green cloak. The man in the field straightens and turns to face her over his shoulder, smiling.
Aegnor speaks to her, and at first Andreth doesn’t understand. Something about a ring, and she looks down at her hand, where a silver band wraps around her finger. An elven proposal of marriage custom, she remembers it being explained to her, silver for intention to wed, but does not recall if it was Finrod or Aegnor himself who had told her, and it does not make sense. He had never proposed to her, no matter how she had dreamed he had. But he is looking at her with such certainty and love, framed by the orange dawn. Andreth stares at the cold circle of silver, and suddenly the light has cooled and she feels cold. She remembers the texture of ash and dirt in her hands, digging through the aftermath of a battlefield. She remembers burials, and wakes.
Andreth is in her ancestral home, but her bed is cold. The fire in the hearth is gone, and as she stretches out her hand, she can feel the piece of metal from her dream. It is a piece of chain-mail from a shattered and burnt suit of elven mail, one of the larger rings that she had dug out from the pile of charred bones. She runs a finger over the metal and wishes she was back in her dream.
i am nothing if not predictable and this is the JL trailer Clois scene because OTPs are meant to be combined.
Andreth steps outside the door of her nephew’s house, the grand building that had once been home of her brother and her father and their father before them, so lovingly crafted and worn smooth by time and care. Her fingers wish to linger on the door-latch for a moment, but she does not hesitate to walk further into the light. She does not hear the door close behind her, or any sounds from inside the house. It is dawn, and the reddish orange of the sky looks so warm and comforting. She does not understand how it can, because the fiery glow engulfs the entire skyline and casts its hue over everything she sees, and she should be frightened, should be thinking of the flames that destroyed her world only a few days ago, but she doesn’t. She has forgotten the northern fires.
Andreth walks out from the shadow of the eaves, hugging her green cloak around her shoulders, staring out at the field stretched out before the house. From this angle she cannot see the other houses of the village nor the smithy, mill, or any of the barns, not even the fence-lines. Only a field of green grain, waist-high with summer promise, and a figure standing in the field with his back to her. The dawn silhouettes him, and Andreth knows the lines of his shoulders. He is leaning over to run a hand over the barley, and as a breeze lifts at her unbound hair, Andreth begins to smile in recognition and joy. He is not wearing armor, only a soft woven tunic of the very sort of plaid woolen cloth that has come from her looms, and there is no sword or quiver belted at his waist. He is free of tension, at peace, and that alone would make Andreth weep. Sunlight turns the curls of his hair into pure gold. It is still silent. Andreth walks out into the field, the dew soaking through the thin leather of her shoes and collecting on the hem of her green cloak. The man in the field straightens and turns to face her over his shoulder, smiling.
Aegnor speaks to her, and at first Andreth doesn’t understand. Something about a ring, and she looks down at her hand, where a silver band wraps around her finger. An elven proposal of marriage custom, she remembers it being explained to her, silver for intention to wed, but does not recall if it was Finrod or Aegnor himself who had told her, and it does not make sense. He had never proposed to her, no matter how she had dreamed he had. But he is looking at her with such certainty and love, framed by the orange dawn. Andreth stares at the cold circle of silver, and suddenly the light has cooled and she feels cold. She remembers the texture of ash and dirt in her hands, digging through the aftermath of a battlefield. She remembers burials, and wakes.
Andreth is in her ancestral home, but her bed is cold. The fire in the hearth is gone, and as she stretches out her hand, she can feel the piece of metal from her dream. It is a piece of chain-mail from a shattered and burnt suit of elven mail, one of the larger rings that she had dug out from the pile of charred bones. She runs a finger over the metal and wishes she was back in her dream.
i am nothing if not predictable and this is the JL trailer Clois scene because OTPs are meant to be combined.
from this: http://squirrelwrangler.tumblr.com/post/87558600155/silm-otp-sigils-series-17-aegnorandreth
Ok, so I did another one of @squirrelwrangler ’s silmarillion sigils, that of Andreth, wise woman of the House of Beor, Finrod’s philosophy friend in the Athrabeth and Aegnor’s beloved.
I did the flowers a little more true to life than in the original design, I hope that is forgivable and did the holding stitches in blue, because I wanted all of Beor’s colours and it looks a bit like rain, even though it breaks the symmetry.
The flower are wisteria, which are a little poisonous but stand for devotion or welcoming. And can’t you imagine a wisteria tree in front of Andreth’s house in Dorthonion in a garden of fruit and vegetables and Finrod knocks on her door one day and is like ‘i ate this purple flower just now and I have really bad stomach ache’ and Andreth just shaking her head because… elves really?
Andreth steps outside the door of her nephew’s house, the grand building that had once been home of her brother and her father and their father before them, so lovingly crafted and worn smooth by time and care. Her fingers wish to linger on the door-latch for a moment, but she does not hesitate to walk further into the light. She does not hear the door close behind her, or any sounds from inside the house. It is dawn, and the reddish orange of the sky looks so warm and comforting. She does not understand how it can, because the fiery glow engulfs the entire skyline and casts its hue over everything she sees, and she should be frightened, should be thinking of the flames that destroyed her world only a few days ago, but she doesn’t. She has forgotten the northern fires.
Andreth walks out from the shadow of the eaves, hugging her green cloak around her shoulders, staring out at the field stretched out before the house. From this angle she cannot see the other houses of the village nor the smithy, mill, or any of the barns, not even the fence-lines. Only a field of green grain, waist-high with summer promise, and a figure standing in the field with his back to her. The dawn silhouettes him, and Andreth knows the lines of his shoulders. He is leaning over to run a hand over the barley, and as a breeze lifts at her unbound hair, Andreth begins to smile in recognition and joy. He is not wearing armor, only a soft woven tunic of the very sort of plaid woolen cloth that has come from her looms, and there is no sword or quiver belted at his waist. He is free of tension, at peace, and that alone would make Andreth weep. Sunlight turns the curls of his hair into pure gold. It is still silent. Andreth walks out into the field, the dew soaking through the thin leather of her shoes and collecting on the hem of her green cloak. The man in the field straightens and turns to face her over his shoulder, smiling.
Aegnor speaks to her, and at first Andreth doesn’t understand. Something about a ring, and she looks down at her hand, where a silver band wraps around her finger. An elven proposal of marriage custom, she remembers it being explained to her, silver for intention to wed, but does not recall if it was Finrod or Aegnor himself who had told her, and it does not make sense. He had never proposed to her, no matter how she had dreamed he had. But he is looking at her with such certainty and love, framed by the orange dawn. Andreth stares at the cold circle of silver, and suddenly the light has cooled and she feels cold. She remembers the texture of ash and dirt in her hands, digging through the aftermath of a battlefield. She remembers burials, and wakes.
Andreth is in her ancestral home, but her bed is cold. The fire in the hearth is gone, and as she stretches out her hand, she can feel the piece of metal from her dream. It is a piece of chain-mail from a shattered and burnt suit of elven mail, one of the larger rings that she had dug out from the pile of charred bones. She runs a finger over the metal and wishes she was back in her dream.
i am nothing if not predictable and this is the JL trailer Clois scene because OTPs are meant to be combined.
Aegnor and Andreth. Someday… by elena kukanova
“Someday in Arda Remade. Inspired by the last words of “Atrabeth Finrod ah Andreth”:
“…But you are not for Arda. Whither you go may you find light.
Await us there, my brother – and me.”
assorted first draft snippets for Meng Jiangnu of Dorthonion
I swear it’ll be written one of these days.
Baragund once thought his great-aunt the strongest woman he would ever meet, and he still wished to believe so. Yet the flames that died in the wake of the Battle of Sudden Flame were limited not to those purely physical, and to look into his great-aunt Andreth’s eyes was to see a flame extinguished. There was a frailness to his great-aunt that not even her immense age had afflicted upon her. She stood, disdaining still to lean on the cane that their father had gifted her last Midsummer, and argued with Uncle Barahir and Aunt Emeldir over the proper course of action now that the flames had devoured most of Dorthonion. Her voice was as loud and clear as it had been when Baragund had been a boy, but there was a new brittleness to its timbre and a weariness to the set of her shoulders. Uncle Barahir wished to stay and fight, to try to rebuild. Great-Aunt Andreth, a bony arm splayed out to point to the ash-fields that remained of their homes and the oily black clouds that still billowed from the castle to the west, called that hope foolishness. As Wise-woman and eldest kin, Great-aunt Andreth had dispensed advice for the chieftains of Bëor, starting with her father, then brother, and lastly her nephew.
In some ways, his people said, it was Andreth who ruled the People of Bëor, and they nodded at the righteousness of that, for she was wise and firm-willed. Uncle Barahir looked pained to be publicly disagreeing with her.
When the Great Fever swept through Dorthonion, killing many including Chief Boromir and Baragund’s mother, Great-aunt Andreth had been the one to take in Baragund and his brother while their father recovered from the illness and buried their mother. She had been the one to lead her brother, Bregor, through that terrible summer of his first days as chief, to give him strength and hope. She promised the plague would pass, lives be rebuilt, and that Bregor would carry his people successfully through the harvest and winter. Now, her words speak of defeat. In the ashes of the Dagor Bragollach, there was no hope of surviving the coming winter.
A tree, hallowed out by disease and rot, still upright until a high wind would come to topple it, that was Great-Aunt Andreth.
—
“We should not leave before recovering the bones,” Great-Aunt Andreth said in her new brittle voice. “They should be buried, your father’s bones. And theirs, our lords.” Her breath hitched, and if their had been an emptiness where light once shone in her grey eyes, now there was the gaping darkness that the elves spoke of when describing the great monster Ungoliant. “We cannot leave their bones to be gnawed on by the Enemy’s wolves.”
—
His brother, Belegund, cupped his wife and daughter’s cheeks with both hands, one after another, to kiss their foreheads and promise to return.
Rían, almost too heavy to be held in her mother’s arms, reached tearfully for her father. Belegund held her crying cheeks, thumbs rubbing away the tears, and kissed her forehead a second time. Baragund mimicked the gesture with his own daughter. Morwen grimaced and rubbed at her brow after he kissed it, scowling up at him.
“Worry not for me,” she told him in her most serious voice, desperate to sound like the grown woman she thought she must be. Fourteen years old and stubborn.
When he first held her in his arms, Baragund had wished with all his heart that his tiny Morwen would grow to become like the woman he most admired. He stared at her and wondered if she too would become hollowed out by grief as Great-aunt Andreth has.
—
The crows and other scavengers had picked the charred flesh off of the bones, and what remained were cracked, fire-darkened armor, charcoal and ash, some bones that still vaguely resembled the outlines of the bodies that had once been, and the smell.
It was impossible to tell which body was his father, or the elven lords. “He was my father,” Baragund cried, “How can I not tell where he lies, which body is his? How will we bury him with honor?”
“You will,” Andreth assured him.
—
“The vows,” Great-Aunt Andreth was whispering to herself, staring forlornly at the bones. “Flesh become one, my heart be yours, your blood be mine. The old wedding vows.” In her grief she had bitten her bottom lip enough to draw blood, and she wiped it with the back of a bony hand. It stood bright red against the pale flesh and gray ash as she sifted through the rubble, gingerly searching for discernible pieces of skeletons. Belegund brought her helmets, searching for one with a familiar crest.
“I was not yours; you were not mine.”
The Gift of Men/ The Brides of Death
crocordile (and a few others over the months) have asked about some of my proto-Bëorian headcanons. One of them has to do with a element of symbolism of the Wisewomen of the Edain, of mistletoe and other poisonous plants and a very common twist one comes across when reading about stories of maidens sacrificed to dragons.
…
Nóm has many questions, but he never asks about the wreath Andreth wears in her hair, the white berries of the mistletoe, the needles of the yew, the star-like purple nightshade flowers, and the white clusters of celery or carrot in place of the water dropwort. White flowers and white berries are popular to make into flower wreathes to crown a head, and the bright purple and yellow of the wise-woman’s flowers show dramatically against her dark hair. Perhaps he thinks they were chosen for their beauty. It is the same wreath that Adanel wears, and every Wisewoman before her, the mistletoe and yew and many changing flowers. Andreth weaves in the bright yellow flowers of the golden chain tree, for they are easy to find and pair nicely.
The dangers of the starving years on grass peas, how fearful her people were when they no longer had even the vetches with their tiny blue flowers to survive on, are long gone. Now only the animals eat it, mixed in with rich grains, fat off the summer grass in the highlands. That her people even have cattle and herd animals is thanks to the generosity and protection of Nóm, of Lord Finrod. But no longer do they fear the wasting paralysis from the only food that would grow in famine and drought, even if Adanel adds their tiny flowers to her own wreath in remembrance.
Andreth touches the wreath and wonders if he does not know all are deadly to eat, but then he is an elf.
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